Where the Raven Flies

Where the Raven flies, through endless dark,
And no tree grows to perch or mark,
Where no flame burns, and no ice thaws,
No stone to echo back his caws,
No ground beneath the ceaseless skies,
Where the Raven flies.

Where the Raven flies without his flock,
No grackle, lark, or suntail hawk,
He flies with neither goal nor rest,
And tries to build himself a nest,
Behind a blackened veiled disguise,
Where the Raven flies.

Where the Raven flies as dawn draws near,
To birth that brilliant, golden sphere,
Where midnight’s shroud, her endless chill,
Gives way, at last, to daybreak’s thrill,
And now there’s warmth at sun’s first rise,
Where the Raven flies.

Where the Raven flies, with many more,
Who through that golden age can soar,
Above the trees and near the clouds,
In happy throngs of singing crowds,
Their songs and stories form the prize,
Where the Raven flies.

Where the Raven flies as snows began,
And spread as far as eyesights span,
Where wither leaves upon the branch,
Then buried in the avalanche,
That came when all that beauty dies,
Where the Raven flies.

Where the Raven flies, once more to roam,
And find a new, unspoiled home,
Where they could gather, all the birds,
And sing, once more, their precious words,
Away from all the thefts and lies,
Where the Raven flies.

Where the Raven flies, no snow nor ice,
Consumes that promised paradise,
Where sunlight filters through the lens
Of those who share the sky as friends,
A second golden age of highs,
Where the Raven flies.

Where the Raven flies, there’re still no snows,
But every high descends to lows,
It’s true, that second Golden Age,
Must take its bow upon the stage,
And all that’s left will mourn demise,
Where the Raven flies.

Where the Raven flies is quiet now,
With so few nests to weigh the bough,
But birds who’ve sang, then flown away,
May yet return to sing someday,
And so with hope he turns his eyes,
Where the Raven flies.

Invocation of St. Micha

We pray to Micha, Saint of those who die,
We ask she spark her holy lantern’s flame,
To light our way into that Palace High.

In sapling youth, we fear to say goodbye,
So as we grow into a stronger frame,
We pray to Micha, Saint of those who die.

Adulthood’s bark, like armor worn, whereby
We all defend our faith and speak her name,
To light our way into that Palace High.

As elder oaks, no longer young or spry,
Who glimpse a future, otherworldly aim,
We pray to Micha, Saint of those who die.

The withered pine, who reaches to the sky,
Reflects in pools and sheds its life’s acclaim,
To light our way into that Palace High.

And when the ashes spread, we all know why:
The fires purify our mortal shame.
We pray to Micha, Saint of those who die,
To light our way into that Palace High.

Colors of Knight

In tournament, the banners flew for every knight,
Each squire bore their masters’ crests upon their back,
The champion from last year’s joust was clad in black,
The winner of that melee, though, was dressed in white.
Each color stood in lines, prepared for morning’s light,
For this year’s fight was to begin at dawn’s first crack,
And when the sunlight fell, they all moved in attack,
The wild fool in green, he prayed for strength of night,
And his false ally charged, his eyes just like a raven,
But crashed against the white-clad foe, and drank the mud
Beneath his feet, and then collapsed against the fist
In gauntlets polished clean. Another ran, so craven.
Then Red felled White, and fell to Black in pools of blood,
And Blue, with one last chance, he swung his sword. But mist.

Colori del Cavaliere

In torneo, gli stendardi volarono per ogni cavaliere,
Ogni scudiero portava le creste dei loro padroni sulla schiena,
Il campione della giostra dell'anno scorso era vestito di nero,
Il vincitore di quella mischia, però, era vestito di bianco.
Ogni colore era allineato, preparato per la luce del mattino,
Perché la lotta di quest'anno doveva iniziare al primo crack dell'alba,
E quando la luce del sole calò, si mossero tutti in attacco,
Lo sciocco selvaggio in verde, ha pregato per la forza della notte,
E il suo falso alleato caricato, i suoi occhi proprio come un corvo,
Ma si schiantò contro il nemico vestito di bianco e bevve il fango
Sotto i suoi piedi, e poi crollò contro il pugno
In guanti puliti puliti. Un altro corse, così bramoso.
Quindi il Rosso abbatté il Bianco e cadde nel Nero in pozze di sangue,
E Blue, con un'ultima possibilità, fece oscillare la spada. Ma nebbia.

Math

One plus one plus one is three,
And four times ten's, of course, forty,
Now times each other, one-twenty,
That's plain enough for me to see.

But one times one times one is one,
And four plus ten is fourteen, son.
Divide the two and then you're done.
And you are still at fourteen. Fun.

Then one less one less one again,
Is minus one, and four by ten,
divided's point four, added then,
Is minus point six, says my pen.

Dividing one's a harsher path,
Four to the tenth; I need a bath,
I'm done now, I'll unleash my wrath,
On they who tried to teach me math!

Mass of Ghouls

The day – the night – has come at last,
Our gathering begins,
A celebration from our past,
Forgiveness for our sins,
Together we may break our fast,
Consume our needed fuels,
What gathering, I heard you’ve asked?
What else? The Mass of Ghouls!

We pass the graveyard’s rusted gate,
To congregate as one,
And our procession shambles straight,
Until our march is done,
We pass the courtyards of the State,
Of he who thinks he rules,
But we don’t stop; it’s growing late:
Begin the Mass of Ghouls!

Our priest begins to speak aloud,
His arms spread wide like birds,
As he addresses us, his crowd,
A sermon without words,
Our heads in reverence are bowed,
Like students in their schools,
Our hearts, which do not beat, are proud,
Within the Mass of Ghouls!

The living shriek, a horrid scream,
To see undying faith,
They fear this is a terror dream,
And we, some sort of wraith,
So soon, their torches rage and gleam,
As though they’re precious jewels,
And interrupt our rite supreme,
Our holy Mass of Ghouls!

So now we roar, a maddened sound,
They forced us down this path,
They let their heresy abound,
So we’ll unleash our wrath,
We’ll see them dragged and rightly bound,
Beneath their sacred pools,
And they will join the dead and drowned;
They’ll join this Mass of Ghouls!

anna reviled devil dog
wolf maws level mood
edit live no spools
rats bats saw otto

otto was stab star
sloops on evil tide
doom level swam flow
god lived deliver anna

Nettling Imp

‘Twas long ago, His Majesty, my liege,
Sent us, his army, to the gates of hell,
And there, before that fortress, sat in siege,
Diminishing the stores to where they dwell.

Those dark, infernal warriors had resolve,
And archers keeping watch above the gate,
As days wore on, our patience soon dissolved,
And I, myself, could hardly sit and wait.

One day, a voice came cutting through the fog,
A shrill and whining call. I caught a glimpse,
Up on the wall, its face just like a dog,
The most annoying paragon of imps.

It hurled all kinds of insults, barbs, and taunts,
It called us cowards, frightened of their fire,
It joked about our mothers, sisters, aunts,
And built in each of us a wrathful ire.

I felt like it was speaking straight to me,
It said that I was basically a chimp,
And through the haze of red that I could see,
I mumbled to myself, “I hate that imp.”

The creature kept pursuing its assault,
And said that I was small just like a shrimp,
I started for it, forced myself to halt,
And said more loudly, “Gods, I hate that imp.”

By now the thing was cackling like hags,
It said I ran just like I had a limp,
So naturally I started for their flags,
But stopped again and yelled, “I hate that imp!”

The last thing I recall, the imp had said
That I was weak, I think the word was “wimp,”
I charged at him, and now I guess I’m dead,
And even in my death, I hate that imp!!!